Sad Eyes
by YanksLuver
Summary: After Sydney's death, Vaughn visits a bar and meets a man who shares his pain. They each learn a lesson from the other.


Title: Sad Eyes  
  
Author: Steph (ILUVNYYANK@aol.com)  
  
Category: Drama/Romantic overtones  
  
POV: Outsider/bit of Vaughn  
  
Spoilers: First two episodes of third season.   
  
Rating: PG  
  
Archive: Sure, just let me know where.  
  
Disclaimer: Alias and its characters do not belong to me. I do this out of a love for the show and no infringement is intended.  
  
Summary: After Sydney's death, Vaughn visits a bar and meets a man who shares his pain. They each learn a lesson from the other.   
  
Note: This just kind of popped into my head and wrote itself. Hope you enjoy it and please let me know what you thought! :) ~Steph  
  
* * * Sad Eyes: Part 1/1 * * *  
  
I've been a bartender for thirty years. It's not what I expected to do with my life.  
  
At age six, you don't dream of serving people drinks. You don't even do that at age eighteen.  
  
No, at age six I wanted to be an astronaut. Or professional baseball player. Or space cowboy.  
  
You know, typical dreams for a little boy.  
  
By age eighteen, I'd become a little more realistic, and I decided I wanted to be a doctor. I've always liked helping people.  
  
But coming from a working-class family (Mom was a third grade teacher and Dad worked in a steel factory) with five kids, I didn't have much money for college, never mind medical school. I was lucky enough to get a partial academic scholarship to college, my parents said they'd help as much as possible and I decided to get a part-time job tending bar to (hopefully) pay for the rest.  
  
I've learned this much in my forty-eight years on this planet: Things don't always go as planned.  
  
The day before I was supposed to start my freshman year at college, my father dropped dead from a heart attack at age forty-eight.  
  
Forty-eight. The age I am now.  
  
He died and with him went much more.  
  
I couldn't afford college without my parents' help and, more importantly, my mother couldn't afford to raise my four siblings all alone.  
  
I dropped out and started tending bar full-time.  
  
That was thirty years ago and I've never looked back. At least, not for too long.  
  
Now, I find myself forty-eight years old, alone and still serving the same old drinks.  
  
I like to think of myself as more than a bartender. Keeps me going. Gets me through the night.  
  
I've seen a lot in my years.  
  
I've seen them age.  
  
I've seen them drink themselves to death, literally.  
  
I've seen them marry, divorce and marry again.  
  
I've seen them have kids, lose kids and welcome grandkids.  
  
I've seen them lose spouses and parents, jobs and homes.  
  
I've seen it all.  
  
I like to think of myself as a psychiatrist of sorts, without the hefty paycheck.  
  
I listen when they need me to listen. I talk when they need me to talk.  
  
I'm there for them. Sometimes, I'm the only one.  
  
I've become a keen observer of human behavior. I have the ability to size someone up by noting casual behavior, body language and hearing the words they never say.  
  
I never forget a face.  
  
Of course, there are the regulars, some who have been here as long as I have.  
  
Then there are those who drop by occasionally. Fight with the wife. Bad day at work. Just need to escape.  
  
And those that drop in once, never to be seen again. They're the ones I remember the most. I wonder what they're up to now. I wonder if they made it through whatever storm they were weathering.  
  
I'll always remember him. He came in here about two years ago.  
  
He didn't look like one of my regulars in his dark suit and tie. No, that's a little formal for my customers.  
  
He was the kind of guy everyone notices. All-American-boy-next-door- type. Neatly groomed short brown hair, sharply defined facial features, solid build.  
  
And green eyes. The saddest green eyes you've ever seen.  
  
I could tell he wasn't used to coming to places like these just by the way he carried himself. His shoulders tense, face stone-still. He sat down at the bar stool in front of me and didn't slump forward like most. He sat straight-up.  
  
"Scotch on the rocks. Make that two."  
  
I shook my head, as I started preparing the drink and told him what I tell every person who looked liked he did and ordered that, "Let's start with one and take it from there."  
  
He nodded, relaxing his posture and placing his elbows on the bar, one hand cradling his head.  
  
I pushed the drink toward him. He grabbed it immediately, downed it quickly and then pushed the glass back at me.  
  
He looked at me with those sad green eyes and asked politely, "I'll have that second one now please."  
  
Please. Not a word I heard often.  
  
I nodded, poured him another and then placed it in front of him. This time, he just stared at it. Didn't touch it.  
  
I watched him for a few long moments, wondering what his story was. They all had a story. Or two. Or three.  
  
I cleared my throat softly, "I've never seen you in here before. You from around here?"  
  
He nodded, eyes never lifting to meet mine. "Yeah, I live here in LA."  
  
"You work around here?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
A man of few words. They always start out not saying much. But they wouldn't be here if they didn't have something to say.  
  
And he certainly wouldn't be here at 11:30 in the morning.  
  
"What do you do?"  
  
"Work for the government."  
  
Purposely vague. I didn't push, despite my curiosity.  
  
He stared at that drink in silence for fifteen minutes, never touching it, before he finally spoke.  
  
"I've always hated funerals. Someone lives a life, a good, meaningful life, and it all comes down to a few well-chosen words....as if you can just tie it up with a bow and end it so easily."  
  
I eyed him, beginning to understand what he was doing here. "You just came from a funeral?"  
  
He finally raised his eyes to meet mine. If it's possible, the sorrow in them had deepened.  
  
He didn't reply. He didn't even nod.  
  
"Someone you loved a lot?"  
  
"You have no idea."  
  
"I have some idea, " I said with a knowing nod and added softly, "A woman?"  
  
He traced invisible circles on the wood of the bar with his forefinger. "My girlfriend."  
  
"Love of your life, right?"  
  
His head lifted and he looked at me. "Yeah, how did you know?"  
  
I smiled sadly, "I told you I had some idea."  
  
My life didn't end when my father's did. Believe it or not, there was a time when I didn't live through other people. When I had a life of my own.  
  
But things don't always go as planned.  
  
Twenty-nine year old wives aren't supposed to get breast cancer and die. Not even if it runs in their family.  
  
It's not supposed to happen, but sometimes it does.  
  
There are some things you never get over. You can try to tell yourself you do, you can try to move on, find someone else, but there's a reason they're called the 'love of your life'.  
  
I decided not to pretend like I ever got over it. Not to act like I moved on.  
  
I've been in a state of being ever since. Going through the motions, looking at life through other people's eyes.  
  
I've always found it a lot easier to solve their problems. Or at least attempt to.  
  
His eyes were still focused on mine, intensely so.  
  
"Who was she?" he asked.  
  
"It was a long time ago."  
  
He swallowed hard, "I bet it still hurts just as much as it did that day."  
  
I shook my head. "I don't let it."  
  
He dropped his head. "I can't imagine it ever hurting less." He lifted his eyes and tilted his head. "She was your wife, wasn't she?"  
  
I nodded, busying myself with wiping off the counter.  
  
"Did you ever remarry?" I see him eyeing my left hand, noting the gold band I still wear. It just never seemed like the right time to take it off.  
  
I shook my head, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "Never saw the point. When you had what I had, there's no point in settling for less."  
  
He looked at me for a long moment. I almost had to look away. "And you're content with that?"  
  
I shrugged. "Not content. Resigned."  
  
He took a deep breath, moving his eyes back to his untouched drink. "I didn't just come from a funeral. My girlfriend died more than six months ago."  
  
I didn't say anything. I knew when not to talk. When they just needed to speak.  
  
"I left the country soon after her death. I just returned. I started this ritual while I was away. She was cremated and her ashes were spread at sea. So, every week, on the same day that I had her funeral and spread her ashes, I'd find water, no matter where I was, and I'd look out at it. I'd try to imagine her out there, all alone. Then, I'd go back to my hotel or house, depending, and drink myself to sleep. I even started talking to her. I had full conversations with her as if she were still alive."  
  
He paused, smiling bitterly at the thought. "This is the first time I've actually set foot in a bar to do my drinking. Until today, I'd preferred to do it alone."  
  
"What makes today different from every other day?"  
  
He raised his sad eyes up to mine, "Today, went I talked to her, she didn't talk back." He sighed, "I guess I just needed someone to talk back."  
  
I smiled, "Well, you came to the right place."  
  
He gestured to his drink. "Aren't you wondering why I haven't touched my drink?"  
  
"I figured you had a good reason."  
  
He nodded, his gaze moving to it again, "I don't want to feel like this anymore. Like it's going to make everything better, like I'm waiting for something to change. That drink before? That was my last."  
  
I nodded, "Good."  
  
He swallowed hard and began to play with the napkin under his drink. "I'm not sure I can spend the rest of my life alone. I don't think Sydney would have wanted it that way."  
  
Sydney. Pretty name.  
  
I thought about that for a while. I suppose Elizabeth wouldn't have wanted it that way either.  
  
I studied him for a long moment before going on, "My father was forty-eight years old when he dropped dead. I'll be forty-eight in two years. When he died, he had a loving wife and five kids who adored him. If I were to die right now, I wouldn't leave anyone behind. He worked in a steel factory. He hated his job. Hated getting up every morning and going, but he did. Never missed a day in twenty-eight years. He told me once, 'I do this because I have to, son. For your mother and for you kids. I hate it, but I do it because I have to. And if I died today, I'd die a happy man because I have a wife who loves me and five beautiful kids."  
  
I shook my head, pushing the memory aside and smiling slightly, "I'd almost forgotten that."  
  
"My father died when I was eight," he said quietly. "I guess we have a lot in common."  
  
I nodded, staring at him for a few moments. If I closed my eyes, he could be me. Drowning his sorrows, stuck in the past.  
  
In a lot of ways, he was me. In every life, there comes a time when you make a choice to either go down one path or another. Sometimes you don't even realize it until later. He was at a crossroads. He could choose to live the rest of his life alone or he could choose to try to find love again. It would never be the same, but at least he wouldn't die alone. Like me.  
  
All those years ago, I was at that same crossroads. I chose the wrong path. I realize that now.  
  
I took a deep breath, before speaking, "Sometimes the only way to move forward is to look back." I offered him a closed-mouth smile. "Remember her, make your peace with it and then say good-bye."  
  
Pretty good advice. If only someone had told me the same thing all those years ago.  
  
He smiled, stood up, placed some money on the counter and pushed his untouched drink at me. "Thanks." He paused and then extended his hand, "Michael. Nice to meet you."  
  
I took his hand in mine and smiled. "Sam. Likewise."  
  
With that, he turned on his heel and left. I never saw him again.  
  
So, here I am, over two years later, still alone, still serving the same old drinks. I wonder about him sometimes. How he's doing.  
  
He probably doesn't even realize it, but he changed my life. Yes, I'm still alone. And, yes, it's a struggle to let go and move on. To feel again, to start living again. But I'm trying.  
  
Every once in a while I look down at my bare ring finger and, for a second, my heart stops because I think I've lost it. But then I remember that it's resting safely on the dresser in my bedroom at home.  
  
I can still feel it in on my finger. I know a lot of men say they don't feel the ring on their finger after a while. They get so used to it, that they forget it's even there.  
  
I was never that man. It was a part of me. I didn't want to forget.  
  
I've heard that when you lose a limb, like an arm or a leg, you can feel it like it's still there.  
  
I guess that's how it is when something's become such a part of you. You never stop missing it.  
  
* * *  
  
I think about him sometimes. The bartender with the saddest blue eyes you've ever seen.  
  
I wonder what he's up to. I wonder if he realizes he changed my life.  
  
Here I am, two years later, not at all alone. There are two women who love me, but only one really has my heart. Always has, always will.  
  
Sometimes I hate him. Sometimes I curse him for making me realize I had to move on. If only I hadn't...  
  
But then I realize how grateful I should be; he saved my life. If he hadn't been there to talk to, then that may not have been my last drink. And I might not be here right now.  
  
I look down at my ring sometimes, never forgetting that I have it on. I can always feel it on my finger. It's like this thing that just doesn't belong, that never quite fit.  
  
It hasn't become a part of me. I don't think it ever will.  
  
******************************THE END********************************* Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what you thought. :) ~Steph 


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